He saw, in one of the doorways, a tall spare man whose dinner clothes seemed to have been poured over his figure, smiling and twirling a Martini glass in one manicured hand. Gray at the temples, his face was hard and almost unlined, cut in the aquiline fleshless pattern of a traditional Indian chief.
"I don't want to break anything up," he said, "but all the excitement seemed to be out here." Ignoring Ourley, he sauntered towards the Saint with his free hand outstretched. "I've heard a lot about you, Mr Templar. My name's Allen Uttershaw. I'm supposed to run that Uttershaw Mining Company. I heard somebody talking about iridium. Are you going to get that stolen shipment back for us?"
"I don't know," said the Saint. "I'm afraid I only heard about you a few days ago."
"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen," Uttershaw said tolerantly, his smile widening.
Ourley made a gesture of frightful frustration with his cigar.
"What is all this?" he barked. "Who said that?"
"John Kieran," said Uttershaw gravely; and Simon looked at him with new interest. It began to seem as if Mr Allen Uttershaw might be quite a fellow.
Mr Ourley didn't have the same pure intellectual detachment. He repeated his outraged gesture with italics in smoke.
"Dabbity dab dab dab!" he roared. "Has everybody gone nuts? First I find my wife has brought this meddler into my home to spy on me, and then you keep on quoting poetry. Or maybe it's me that's crazy."
"Milton!" said Mrs Ourley sternly.